


Legerdemain

by mmouse15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fandom Trumps Hate, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:14:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21698332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmouse15/pseuds/mmouse15
Summary: I was blessed with a request for FTH, and while it has taken me a long time to get this done, I'm pleased with the work. I hope the bidder, who wishes to remain anonymous, enjoys this story. Mycroft centric, kidnapping, with a dose of Lestrade.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Legerdemain

**Author's Note:**

> Their request: As far as story ideas go, are you comfortable writing BBC Sherlock? My favorite character is Mycroft. Vulnerable Mycroft is like catnip to me - Hurt Mycroft, Injured Mycroft, Kidnapped Mycroft, Sick Mycroft,Traumatic/Angsty Past Mycroft, etc :) Canon Mycroft is an incredibly powerful man but what makes him attractive to me is that I think he's quite desperately human under all that armor.

The jacket slid over his arms with a sibilant hiss and settled on his shoulders. He shrugged slightly to settle it further, smoothing the collar of his shirt to be sure the back of the jacket settled properly over the collar. Finally he snugged the knot of his tie more firmly against his Adam's apple and looked at himself in the mirror.

Mycroft Holmes, the power behind the powerful, firmed his jaw and erased the insecurity he could see lurking in his eyes. He was above that. He did this every day, and today was no different. With a final pass of his hand over his tie, he turned and picked up his mobile, his umbrella, and his keys before heading down the stairs to his waiting car.

His assistant, Anthea, was already in the seat, typing away on her mobile. As Mycroft settled himself, she took his umbrella and handed him a folder containing his morning briefing.

He flipped through the pages quickly, speed-reading through the summaries. Satisfied, he closed the folder and pulled out his mobile to begin organizing his calendar for the day. He would synchronise his calendar with Anthea's when they arrived at the office. He locked his phone and slid it into his pocket, looking up just as his driver jerked the wheel of the car in an attempt to avoid a car that had just come out of a cross street at high speed.

Unfortunately, his driver was not able to completely avoid the collision, and Mycroft found himself flung against the far door of the compartment. Althea fared better, since she was wearing her seatbelt, but she still dropped her phone.

Mycroft righted himself and looked forward.

"Get down, sir," his driver cried out, stepping on the accelerator and scraping the wrecked car off the side of the limousine. Mycroft ducked down just as a shower of bullets pocked the side of the limo. The bulletproof shielding held, but the noise was startling.

Althea let out a stifled shriek before unbuckling and throwing herself to the floor. Mycroft reached for the small pistol tucked away in a compartment, palming it and readying himself.

His driver was quite the best, however, and got them away safely, radioing into the guard at the parking garage and speeding through as the guard raised the gate before them. Armed guards greeted them as they pulled into Mycroft's assigned parking space. He and Althea were escorted to the elevator, with two guards staying behind and two others entering the compartment with him and Althea.

Arriving at his floor, the guards stepped out first, sweeping the entire floor before looking back and nodding. Mycroft stepped out, Althea following closely, and followed the guards to his office. He unlocked the door, stepping back to allow them to sweep the office before he entered. Once the office was deemed safe, he and Althea entered.

"I'll be staying behind, sir, just for today," One of the guards told him.

"Thank you. Althea will make sure you have all that you need," Mycroft answered, entering his office and leaving Althea and the guard in the antechamber. Closing the door behind him, he took a moment to breathe before moving to his desk and sitting down to begin the official part of his day.

An hour later, Althea buzzed him.

"Yes?" Mycroft answered.

"A Detective Inspector Lestrade to see you, sir," Althea replied.

Mycroft looked at his desk and sighed quietly. "Of course, please send him in." He began closing folders and stacking them.

The door opened and Lestrade came in.

"Mycroft," he said.

"Ah, Inspector, how may I assist you today?" Mycroft replied, standing and offering his hand.

Lestrade shook and took the chair Mycroft indicated.

"Well, it's about the incident this morning. It was kicked over to me because the force, for some reason, thinks I have a good experience working with the Holmes brothers. Or one of them, at least, and that obviously translates to both." He grinned at Mycroft.

Mycroft grimaced and replied, "I'm not sure working with my brother prepares you for me."

Lestrade looked him over briefly and said, "No, but someone has to do it, and it looks like I'm elected. Now, please tell me what happened." He pulled out a notebook and pen, prepared to write.

"Don't you mean tell you what I think happened?" Mycroft asked, arching a brow.

"Don't play me for a fool, Mycroft. Sherlock is observant, you're his equal or better. Tell me what happened."

Mycroft bowed his head and recited the events of the morning.

"Do you think it was an attempt to kidnap you?" Lestrade asked at the end.

"No, I don't believe so. It seemed too amateur for a kidnapping attempt," Mycroft answered, his brow wrinkling briefly as he thought.

Lestrade waited patiently for Mycroft.

"It is, however, a setup for something more. I will be without my vehicle for a few weeks as it is repaired, and the replacement will not be as well-built. The glass will not be as thick, the doors will not have the same shielding, the tyres will not be able to run flat," Mycroft elucidated.

"So the serious attempt will happen soon," Lestrade added.

"Yes…" Mycroft let the thought trail off as he thought.

Lestrade stood up, and offered his hand. "I trust you to figure this out. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help, in the meantime."

Mycroft stood to shake Lestrade's hand and said, "There is one thing you can do."

Lestrade grinned at him, and Mycroft marveled that his brother got to spend time with this competent, wickedly funny man. They huddled together for a few moments while Mycroft spoke soft and fast, then Lestrade took his leave.

That evening, Mycroft sent Althea home in a different car, and told her to come straight in, to not come and pick him up. She nodded and bade him good evening. He got into his own car and went straight to his flat. 

The next morning, he got up, did his ablutions and prepared for the day. He went downstairs and broke his fast with toast and tea, then went out and latched the door behind him. His car was waiting at the kerb, and he let himself in. The driver pulled away smoothly.

Mycroft pulled out his mobile, pressed an app, then picked up the briefing folder that lay on the seat next to him. He flipped through it and noticed when he went off-route. He glanced up at the mirror and made eye contact with his driver through the mirror. The man quickly got them back on the proper route. That day, he arrived safely at work and spent most of the day fixing a problem in the Lords' chamber of the Parliament.

That evening, his regular driver was not waiting for him. The new driver had the appropriate pass, and Mycroft climbed into the back of the car. Again, he pressed an app on his mobile and dived into the files he'd brought with him.

Of course, he noticed when the driver deviated from the normal route, but chose not to say anything until the car turned onto Park Lane.

"Excuse me, where are we going?" Mycroft asked in his prissiest voice.

The driver didn't answer him, but the doors locked and would not open to Mycroft's grabbing of the handles, nor would the windows go down. He swiftly sent a text and locked his mobile, slipping it into his pocket. He set the files tidily to the side and gripped his brolly.

The drive was forty minutes, and Mycroft took careful note of the direction they were driving. When the car pulled into an industrial park, a large roll-up door was open. The driver pulled in and the door began to unroll, closing the opening.

Mycroft eyed the armed, black-clad men that surrounded his car. When the door opened, he stepped out, brolly firmly in hand.

"What is this?" Mycroft asked.

A soft voice came from behind him, "It's a kidnapping, of course, Mr. Holmes. But you knew that, didn't you?"

Mycroft inclined his head and waited.

A man shorter than he was came around the back of the car. A domino mask covered the man's eyes. Mycroft glanced at him and knew the man had grown up poor in one of London's many council estates. His vowels had the faint slur and broadening of the east side, although it was obvious he'd had elocution lessons. His suit was tailored to his form from an off-the-rack suit, not a bespoke suit. His tie was a simple knot, and he had no pocket square.

Mycroft stood still as two of the black-clad men came over and patted him down, taking his mobile, his umbrella, and his slim wallet.

"We wouldn't want anyone tracking you," the kidnapper said.

"Of course not," Mycroft agreed. He watched as his wallet and mobile were locked in a box which he was certain stopped signals of any tracking devices or apps. He turned his attention back to the obvious boss of this caper.

"Now you have me, no one can track me, what do you want?" Mycroft asked.

The man didn't answer. He walked around Mycroft, who was used to such scrutiny from Sherlock and didn't flinch as the man walked closely behind him.

"What do I want?" the man whispered. "I want the power you seem to wield so easily, Mr. Holmes. I want the ability to make people disappear into dark holes and never been seen again, or to bring out into the light things that have been buried."

"I do not have such power," Mycroft answered quietly.

"No? I rather think you do, Mr. Holmes. However, I bow to your modesty. I'll ask for something easier. I want my father back."

"Your father? Who, pray tell, is your father?" Mycroft said.

The man walked back into Mycroft's line of sight, but did not look at Mycroft.

"My father is James Lancaster Donovan."

Mycroft's mind immediately flipped through his files. Donovan had been a petty thief, with a common-law wife and a young son, when he'd gotten involved with a group of men that decided to rob a mansion. Unfortunately for them, the homeowner had been home, and had been armed. Also unfortunately for them, he'd been a member of the aristocracy and had a fair bit of pull with the legal system. Also unfortunate, a pistol had been discharged and a servant of the house had died. Which meant that every man in the gang had been tried for murder, and most of them sent up with life sentences.

"I'm sorry, I don't know who that is," Mycroft tried.

The man let out a short bark of laughter, bitter and sharp. "No? The famous Mycroft Holmes doesn't remember? I don't believe you." He turned to Mycroft, and the hatred emblazoned across his face twisted it into a mask of loathing.

"You know exactly who he is, and you know where he is, and you can get him out," the man hissed. "I couldn't save my mum, I'm not worth saving, but I can try to save my dad."

He straightened, and said, "Of course, if you can't help me, I suppose I can find someone else who can. I hear your brother thinks himself a detective. Or perhaps your mother, who I understand is rather a genius."

"Leave my family alone," Mycroft said sharply.

"I could say the same to you," the man returned.

Mycroft breathed out slowly, settling his pulse which had elevated slightly.

"Of course. How do you propose I get your father out of prison?"

"He's served for twenty years. Surely that's long enough," the man said.

"His sentence was for life," Mycroft returned. 

"He never held the gun. That came from the homeowner, who dropped it and had it turned on him. His butler sacrificed his life for him, that miserable man," Donovan growled.

Mycroft inclined his head, but made no comment.

"Anyway, I was thinking that twenty years is a long time for a robbery that went south, and you could get him out, good behavior, all that lawyer-speak," Donovan continued, "let him live in the open air."

Mycroft said, "He hasn't been well-behaved, though. He's instigated riots, he's tried to escape, he's even taken a doctor hostage when he said he had cancer and wanted a more thorough medical examination."

"Well, it's hard living on the inside! No man should be there," Donovan snarled, "it's not right!"

Mycroft saw a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye, but did not look more closely or indicate that anything had changed. "Your father refuses to accept his personal responsibility for the decisions he made and the consequences of those decisions. He has passed on to you the burden of those responsibilities, and you are a dutiful son, doing your best to honor them, but think on this. If your father had chosen not to go along with that gang of men, would he be where he is now?"

Donovan didn't say anything, just sneered at Mycroft. Mycroft nodded. 

"Of course. He also passed down his irresponsibility, his sense that he is entitled to more than he's gotten," Mycroft said softly.

Donovan lashed out. Mycroft's face stung with the slap.

"Don't you speak of my da that way!" Donovan's coached accent slipped away, the Cockney of his youth coming out in slurs and broadened vowels.

"Hands up!" the voice rang out. Donovan whirled, but they were surrounded by police, armed and armoured. Mycroft ducked down next to his car and waited. Gradually, Donovan's men laid down their weapons, Donovan standing in impotent fury. He was cuffed, as were his men. Mycroft stood up, leaning against his car for a brief moment before he straightened and took his wallet and mobile from Lestrade. He tucked them away, then accepted his umbrella with thanks.

A few minutes passed, and one of the officers went to the official car and seated himself in the driver's seat. The garage door was rolled up, and Lestrade opened the door for Mycroft, ushered him in, and followed him into the car. The door closed after him, and Lestrade engaged the privacy screen. 

"Good thinking, Mycroft," Lestrade said softly.

"Thank you, Lestrade," Mycroft returned, his gaze going past Lestrade's shoulder.

Lestrade leaned across the seat and said, "I see you, Mycroft."

Mycroft snapped his gaze to Lestrade, who continued, "You were brave, and smart, and you took care of everything."

Mycroft shook his head, "I'm fine."

Lestrade slowly reached out and curled his hand around Mycroft's and said, "No, but you will be." He tugged slightly, and Mycroft went, letting Lestrade fold him into a hug. A shiver went through him, and he let the tension holding him up leach out, sinking into the embrace. Lestrade moved closer, holding Mycroft tighter.

"You're alright, My, you did well," Lestrade murmured.

"Greg," Mycroft whispered.

They held the hug, just holding each other, until they reached Mycroft's home. They untangled themselves, and Mycroft straightened his tie, then exited the car. Lestrade leaned into the driver's window, giving him instructions, and then followed Mycroft into the structure.

"I told him to take the car to the motor pool of Scotland Yard. You'll have to call for another car tomorrow. I also told him I had a few follow-up questions for you," Greg said, coming up behind Mycroft and slowly wrapping his arms around him. Mycroft let his head lean against Greg's, absorbing his strength and warmth. Greg moved around, coming to Mycroft's front and folding him a hug. 

They stood that way for a long time. Finally, Mycroft pulled back slightly and Greg let him go, but kept a hand on his arm, guiding him to the bedroom. Mycroft stood passively as Greg removed his jacket and hung it up, slipped his tie off and put it away, then removed his cuff links and put them in their box. He then knelt and untied Mycroft's shoes. Mycroft placed his hand on Greg's shoulder and lifted first one foot, then the other, letting Greg remove his shoes and socks. Greg set them aside, then stood. He unbuttoned Mycroft's shirt and eased it from his shoulders, then turned him and led him to the bathroom, stepping back to give Mycroft privacy.

Mycroft took care of his needs and brushed his teeth. He removed his trousers and donned his pajamas. He opened the door, and Greg took the trousers and went to hang them as Mycroft made his way to his bed.

Greg finished at the wardrobe and came over to the bed, easing himself down and putting his hands on Mycroft's shoulders.

"You did well, My. Can you sleep?"

Mycroft shook his head. Greg nodded and said, "Budge up."

Mycroft scooted over and Greg lay down on top of the duvet. Mycroft slid down under the sheets and duvet and turned to Greg, who draped an arm over Mycroft and pulled him close, pressing his lips to Mycroft's forehead. Mycroft snuggled down and buried his nose in Greg's throat, letting the clean scent of his body soothe him. He drifted to sleep, his body releasing tension and relaxing into the mattress as fingers stroked through his hair. He'd put his mask back on tomorrow, but for now, he was going to let Greg be his bulwark.

~fin


End file.
